


i have written you down, now you will live forever.

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Inspired by Music, Last Day On Earth, Last Kiss, M/M, On The Barricade, Poetry, Post Barricade, Power of Words, Sad, er... sort of, in case you were having a happy evening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Courfeyrac spend their last night together, and find a way to live forever.</p><p>Inspired by 'Poet' by Bastille.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i have written you down, now you will live forever.

In their room, the Romantic and the Centre held each other. 

They did that a lot. They felt at home, safe at last in each other's arms, as though those few layers of thin skin, so easily broken, became iron bars that blocked off the rest of the world and the horrors it created. Sometimes their embraces were friendly, affectionate nuzzles easily given out to any friend. Other times, they were heated; bare skin sliding against bare skin, sweat-soaked and breathless, hands leaving nothing untouched in their worship. But, the embrace they had then was of a different sort. It wasn't a morning cuddle on the pillows, or a drunken cling when the singing got too loud and the bar too crowded and they thought no one could see. It was a comforting embrace. One that promised many things; that they would never be without the other. The shape they made was unbreakable. Two halves of a disjointed puzzle making a complete, perfect picture.

Jehan was sobbing in Courfeyrac's arms, wishing they would envelop him completely, draw him into the other man's body for the rest of his days, armour. His shoulder shook as he wept. The candle flames on the wooden table by the bed flickered unsurely, an invisible wind teasing them. Their light was fading and the candles were melting. They weren't the only ones awake. Sometimes they'd hear Enjolras pacing, murmuring to himself, making last minute adjustments to his plans, and then Combeferre going after him to calm him and coax him to rest. No one would disturb them.

"I'm afraid," was the whisper, voice cracking, degrading to a meek whisper.

Courfeyrac inhaled sharply and buried his nose in the poet's thick hair, smelling the mingled scents of pupourri and the general grease of the city they were clarted in. He reflected with fondness tugging on that hair, winding it around his fingers like lattice-work, feeling the heaviness thin as he moved his hands away from the roots, and then finally slip away. _Don't slip away from me._

"I'm going to miss you," Jehan continued. 

The night outside was cold and unforgiving like the morning would be. They had had their time in the sun, youthful and carefree, despite their current war-stricken situation. Courfeyrac couldn't spend the last night before the storm without Jehan. He needed to see that face in the moonlight one last time. Initially, his intentions had been more suggestive, but Jehan was senstive and emotional, and had curled up in his arms before his shirt could be removed, and Courfeyrac respected that. The young boy -hardly yet a man- needed consoling, and he was good at kissing his cheek. The bed sighed under the weight of them as Jehan wriggled out of his clutch.

"Don't cry, my friend," Courf tried, tracing the line of Jehan's jaw, trying to make a map of the other man's body with his mind. He himself was struggling to remain in control. There was a deep ache in his chest and a swelling behind his eyes and a bitter leaden sensation on his tongue that had began to sting. "You know this day has been on the cards for a long time. Don't be afraid. I'm here."

The student wiped his bleary eyes. "I don't deserve you."

Courfeyrac kissed his forehead and then his hand. "It is I who doesn't deserve you."

A silence settled between them. They could have lived in those minutes forever, never being disturbed, never having to leave. It was broken by the poet, voicing both of their fears.

"I don't want to die."

A violent, cold fear suddenly surged in Coufeyrac's belly, poisonous thoughts of loss threatening to paralyse his mind and body, so he gripped Jehan's arm and pulled him close, slamming their chests together, lusting for that beautiful heart to thud in time with his own wild pulse. Courf kissed him, a little aggresively, crushing their lips together with such abruptness, Jehan made a noise of surprise. He parted them with his tongue, pushing further to revel in the warmth of his mouth. He bundled his hands in the poet's hair, determined and desperate and vulnerable. He was so close, but not close enough. Dread was making him feel ill, he though he could push it out and away if he just clung on a little longer. _Don't let me go. Don't. Please. I..._

Jehan took a hold of his lapel and pushed him away gingerly, taking pity on his friend's dilated pupils, red mouth and frantic hands. He was reluctant to face his feelings, Courfeyrac preferred to get physical, although Jehan's mutterings had tamed him somewhat.

"I don't want to die," Courfeyrac parroted, and he meant it. 

The hurt in Jehan's heart was a weeping wound. To feel Courfeyrac's breathing shudder from the effort against his neck, see the usual glint of cheeky, boyish humour vanish from his eyes, only to be replaced with pure terror and helplessness. They were just children. 

Suddenly, Jehan sat up straighter. He smiled gently considering the wetness in his eyes. He moved away from the bed and went to his desk, crushed up against on of the narrow walls. He searched around in the piles of used parchment to find a blank sheet, then dipped a quill in a pot of black ink. Courfeyrac watched tenderly as the other boy became emmersed in his fantasy world, the world of words he so adored, and Courfeyrac so adored to see him venture through. The peace that came over his pale, round features; the delicate and beautiful gleam in his sparkling eyes as his creativity flowed. Pain ached dully in his chest. Jehan was not made for a world of war. As much of a fighter he could be, he had a different potential, he was a flower that had barely begun to bloom. But perhaps he was just being overprotective.

"What are you doing?" he asked, leaning forward, his dark hair casting a shadow over his face.

Jehan turned around and stood before him, clearing his throat. The flames cast a shy orange blush across his nose.

"i carry your heart with me -i carry it in  
my heart- i am never without it- anywhere  
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing,my darling- 

i fear  
no fate-for you are my fate,my sweet-i want  
no world-for beautiful you are my world,my true-  
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
-here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide-  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

 

i carry your heart -i carry it in my heart."

Jehan pursed his lips and bowed his head modestly. Courfeyrac blinked, astounded.

"Jean..." he breathed, momentarily, miraculously, lost for words. They had been torn from his tongue, inferior to Jehan's verse.

"It's you," Jehan explained, as though it needed explaining. "I have made you immortal, Coufeyrac. You will live forever in those words as you do in my heart. Your name will never fade, never rust, just like the letters Feuilly carved into the wall."

Courfeyrac swallowed hard. He was smiling, but it full of sadness. Jehan cupped his cheek, thumbed away the tears Courfeyrac hadn't realised he had started to shed by the floodful. The dim glow made the poet seem god-like, intangible, far away. He put his hand over Jehan's and rubbed his knuckles softly and kissed the paper.

"What about you?" he asked, choked up. "Us?"

Jehan settled in Courfeyrac's lap, bumping brows and noses. The weight of his slim body was something Coufeyrac would miss, but he was thankful to feel it now, the pressure on his muscles; it was a sign Jehan was real, material, his.

"No. I wither without you. I need to know that, when I leave you, you will still be on this earth somewhere, in some form, should we lose each other in Heaven, so I can cope. So I can visit you."

"We will go together," Courfeyrac twined their fingers together, tight. "By your side or not at all."

Jehan kissed him gently, squeezing his hand tighter. They parted and gazed at one another in another silence for what felt like hours. A brief moment of perfection in an imperfect world. Both knew the promise was empty. Both knew that this was the final evening. The final time they would see each other cry out, gasp out their names. Last time they'd smile, laugh. Last time they'd hold hands. But neither would admit it. Not now. They could allow themselves to be happy for now.

"Jean Prouvaire, I..." Courfeyrac mused quietly, and those were the only words exchanged for the rest of the night, as Courf pulled him backwards onto the mattress, tucking the poem, the immortal words underneath the pillow, and lost themselves in each other's touch to forget about their bruises.

 

**

 

Jehan wandered on his own.

He was first to go. He was no longer wounded, no longer in pain.

He waited patiently. He recited those words in his mind as he explored the ruins of the barricade he had come to call home. He looked down at the now-broken people, lying in rows, knowing their eyes didn't see him watch. People he called friend, family.

But no lover.

It made his stomach churn and his soul wail. He had thought, fleetingly, that there was a slight chance he would not be left behind, that he would be found, that he would not wither. But now he wandered alone.

The sun was high but he felt no warmth. He was puzzled and angered that the weather be fine when the day was not. He wanted to scream, but he no longer had a voice. He wanted a hand to hold. He wanted his world to stop from crumbling. 

He wandered for a while, an aimless soul. He could weep no longer. Finally, the light came to him. It was brighter than any sun, but it did not give life to the slowly dying petals of the flower. It called to him, promising peace. But there was no peace. Not without...

Jehan wandered towards the light alone, bleak despair and loneliness dense in his gut. He peered into it, feeling no need to shield his eyes. Nothing could shield him anymore. 

His mouth moved. Formed the words.

"Here is the deepest secret nobody knows-"

Closer.

"-here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows"

_His touch on your hips. His kiss on your brow. His laugh. His innappropriate jokes. The way he says your name._

"higher than soul can hope or mind can hide-  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart"

It was pulling him. But he could not look over his shoulder to say goodbye. There was nothing to say goodbye to. 

"i carry your heart -i carry it in my heart."

"Jean Prouvaire," said a voice. The voice.

And when Jehan turned around, he ran towards his centre, and was no longer withered.

**Author's Note:**

> Poem is 'i carry your heart with me (i carry it in)' by e.e. cummings.
> 
> Song is 'Poet' by Bastille.
> 
> I also listened to this whilst writing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=At_BIbaLhcU
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
